In the city, the beach seems so small. And vise versa.
By Monday morning, on our way out of town, Jen and I were ready for big beach, small city. Forsaking buses that might make us wait, we raced on foot, southbound on Seymour, knowing that our last free hour in the Glass City had risen to the urgency and sweetness of ice cream: eat it quick, or watch it melt.
By the time we turned westward on Davie, it had all begun to trickle down our arms to our elbows: melting French vanilla, Kitsilano cherry, Vancouver marmalade. Whole scoops splattered on the sidewalk in our wake, just missing the feet of street vendors and gawking tourists; dogs broke free from their hipster owners and lapped it up, then followed in a small and feral parade.
Then, at last, after four days of gorging on artscape, cityscape, rich food and friendship (not to say rich friends), the two of us and our eighteen new pups finally sprawled out, contented, belly-up on the sand, and stared slack-jawed at the world's largest ocean.
By Monday morning, on our way out of town, Jen and I were ready for big beach, small city. Forsaking buses that might make us wait, we raced on foot, southbound on Seymour, knowing that our last free hour in the Glass City had risen to the urgency and sweetness of ice cream: eat it quick, or watch it melt.
By the time we turned westward on Davie, it had all begun to trickle down our arms to our elbows: melting French vanilla, Kitsilano cherry, Vancouver marmalade. Whole scoops splattered on the sidewalk in our wake, just missing the feet of street vendors and gawking tourists; dogs broke free from their hipster owners and lapped it up, then followed in a small and feral parade.
Then, at last, after four days of gorging on artscape, cityscape, rich food and friendship (not to say rich friends), the two of us and our eighteen new pups finally sprawled out, contented, belly-up on the sand, and stared slack-jawed at the world's largest ocean.
For my money, it's melted ice cream -- spilt from six billion cones and counting.
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